Wardrobes
by thefaultoflegend
Summary: "Light-headed good" ... "Urinating in wardrobes bad" Basically, Molly and Sherlock get drunk together.


Molly Hooper had had the worst day possible. At least that's what she thought. She woke up a half an hour late, cursing her phone for not only cancelling her alarm but also letting a message from her mother come through about her current love interests. Molly, however, was not interested. She scrambled to get in and out of the shower quickly only to get shampoo in her eye and managed to burn her neck on her straightener while trying to fix her hair. She didn't have time to eat breakfast as she was in a mad rush to get to work on time and when she opened the door to exit her building she was not-so-pleased to see that the sky was gloomy with clouds hanging over head threatening to spill over at any minute. When she finally did get to work the coffee pot was broken and the night shift person left a ton of work for her to do. Plus, she had new interns to look after. So, when the clock read 5:00, she was more than ready to get back to her flat and just crawl in bed.

And that was just what she intended to do until she stood outside of her flat, looking up at the window where she saw a shock of blond hair hidden behind a black beanie. She didn't waste any more time and practically ran up the stairs and into her flat, coming face to face with Sherlock Holmes. He looked a little surprised to see her, although she wasn't sure why. It was where she lived after all. As she stared into his eyes, those oh-so-familiar eyes, she smiled at him but it quickly faded. He was a mess. His clothes were withered and dirty and torn and he had scrapes all up the sides of his arms. His blonde hair was beginning to fade back to that dark dark brown and the bags under his eyes indicated that he was severely lacking in the sleep department. He looked at her as if he was a lost little boy waiting for someone to take care of him. He hadn't said a word since she walked in the door and neither had she, as if speaking would break down some kind of invisible barrier. He looked so sad. That was the only way she could describe it, as if he was about three seconds from breaking. And it tore Molly's heart to pieces, especially after her long day. She could only imagine what he had been getting himself into. He had been 'dead' for a little over a year now and she saw him only every couple of months when he found himself in London once again. She wondered where he had just come from, who he was trying to track down now. But the look in his eyes portrayed that he really didn't care to talk about it. So Molly did what she did best and helped him.

She walked over to him and grabbed his hand. As she did so his hand forcefully locked over hers and they shared eye contact for a brief second before Molly lead him back to the bathroom. She left him there and went to grab a set of pajamas that she kept in her closet. When she went back, he was already in the shower, the hot water creating steam and condensation against the mirrors and walls. She laid the clothes out along with a towel and picked up his dirty ones, taking them out to wash them. When he was done with his shower, she sat him in a chair in front of her sink and began to dye his hair back to as close to normal as she could get it, him not even having to tell her what he needed.

She was just rinsing the leftover dye out when he finally began to speak. It was like this every time he came. He stayed silent and she let him until he was ready to talk to her. Sometimes he told her what he had been doing. Sometimes he just told her that he needed a meal and a place to sleep. And she would always listen to him and give him whatever he said. So, when he spoke this time, she was surprised by how different the conversation was.

"Have you spoken to John, lately?" he asked. His first words all evening. His voice sounded hoarse and if it were anybody other than Sherlock Holmes, Molly would say that he was on the verge of tears.

"Yes. I ran into him last week at the hospital. He says he's doing better. I caught him flirting with one of the secretaries the other day. I think he may fancy her," she replied evenly as she sat him up and began to run a towel through his curls.

"Yes. That sounds like John," Sherlock replied, looking almost relieved, but the tenseness in his shoulders and the sadness in his eyes remained. "How about Mrs. Hudson? Or Lestrade?"

"I saw Mrs. Hudson about a month ago. She was a little shaken up still, but I think she's doing better as well. Lestrade I saw just yesterday. He's working on more cases than ever."

He seemed to ponder this for a few minutes while Molly kept drying his hair. She knew that he liked it when she did this, dying his hair for him. And she saw a little bit of tension being relieved in his shoulders. They were quiet, until Sherlock spoke again.

"And you. How are you?" he asked and swiveled around to get a good look at her. "You had a bad day. And you're seeing someone," he remarked while eyeing her.

"I had an absolutely horrid day, yes. But I'm not seeing someone," she replied, now satisfied with the state of his hair. She threw the towel over her shoulder and began to make her way out of the bathroom. She heard him following behind her.

"You have a hickey," he stated matter-of-factly and she laughed reaching up to touch the burn mark on her neck.

"I burnt myself this morning. I'm not seeing anyone." He simply shrugged and went to lay himself down on her sofa, the tiredness beginning to get to him. Molly watched him for a few minutes before kneeling down next to his head. "Sherlock?" she asked and he opened his eyes slightly. "You're more sad than usual. You're not okay. Is there something you want to talk about?"

For a second it really seemed like he was finally going to open up to her, to talk about all of the horrors he was facing every day when he was out chasing strings on a spider's web. But then the look went away and he remained impassive. "You're right, Molly. I'm not okay. But you can't fix it this time," he replied sharply before snapping his eyes shut again. He didn't have to tell her. She could tell what was wrong. He was missing it, missing being Sherlock Holmes. He was missing John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And being dead, having his name completely ruined, it was starting to wear on him. And so Molly did what she did best and made a plan to help him. Sighing heavily, she got up quietly and left the flat.

When she returned, he was in the same positioned as when she left him, except this time there was Toby perched on his lap with Sherlock absentmindedly running his fingers through the cat's hair. He only opened his eyes when she set two bags down on the coffee table in front of them and began unpacking the bags. He sat up as he watched her remove containers of fish and chips from his favorite shop and bottles of vodka.

"What's all of this?" he asked her as he eagerly made a grab for the take out box, beginning to stuff his face with chips. Molly figured he probably didn't have a real meal in at least a week. She smirked as she walked to the kitchen and grabbed salt, vinegar, and two shot glasses. When she walked back over, Sherlock had almost completely finished his meal and she handed him the extra fish and chips she got for him. "Are we getting drunk, Molly Hooper?" he asked her with a small smile playing on his lips, the first one he gave her all night.

"We certainly are, Sherlock Holmes," she replied as she opened a bottle and began to pour him a shot.

"You know I don't get drunk," he remarked when she handed him a glass.

"Tonight you do. Now drink up." He eyed her for another second before downing the shot, enjoying the burn in his throat. She did the same and he gave her a real smile then, his eyes beginning to reveal that sparkle that had been missing for over a year.

A half an hour and several shots later, uproarious laughter was coming from a flat that was usually extremely quiet. Inside, a pathologist and a consulting detective were sitting on the floor, a bottle of alcohol between them.

"This game is juven… juv… it's dumb," said Sherlock, his speech quickly turning into slurs of unintelligible words.

"It's only dumb because you're losing," replied Molly who was much better at holding her alcohol than her friend.

"But I've had less than you," he replied.

"Exactly," she said back and he giggled. Actually giggled. It was the first time that Molly had ever seen Sherlock drunk and she loved this side of him. He was carefree and playful and she couldn't help but wonder if he was more like this under his usual cold demeanor.

"I believe it's your turn."

"Right," she said and poured another shot for them both. "Let me think. Ha! I've caught you, Sherlock Holmes. The question I've always wanted to know the answer to." She sat up straight and looked him dead in the eyes. "Never have I ever shagged a girl." She raised one of her eyebrows and watched him carefully. He smiled smugly at her before lifting his shot glass and dumping it into his mouth. "No way!" she gasped as he did so. "Irene Adler?"

He shook his head. "A few times in uni. Mostly experimental." She laughed loudly. "Is it really that surprising?"

"A little," she shrugged and they both shared a few seconds of eye contact before returning to laughter again. So far, she had found out that he once set a tree on fire in his parent's back yard, that he spoke no less than ten languages, that his guilty pleasure was watching romantic comedy television series even if they were completely predictable, and that he regularly drugged John as practice for future use. He had found out that she had no less than fifteen ex-boyfriends, that she couldn't stand her mother, that she once got suspended for sneaking into the biology lab and cutting up all of the dissection frogs, and that she drugged Sherlock the last time he was there so that he would sleep. Molly couldn't remember the last time she laughed so hard and she suspected that Sherlock had never laughed this hard in his life. He tried to get up then, stumbling quite a lot as he did so.

"Whoa…" he said before reaching out a hand to steady himself. Molly grabbed his hand and helped him out.

"You okay there?" she giggled as he tried to take a few steps forward but ended up taking one backward instead.

"Yes. Bathroom," he mumbled before finally taking off down the hall. It quickly occurred to Molly that the light that now came from the hallway was not from the bathroom, but in fact, coming from her bedroom. She got up, all of the alcohol quickly rushing to her head and she reached out to stop herself from falling.

"Sherlock!" she called and he gave a muffled response. When she got to her bedroom she slowly opened the door and what she saw shocked her. Sherlock. Standing in front of her wardrobe. His pants around his ankles. "Sherlock!" she screamed and he jumped back startled, immediately falling onto the ground. Molly slapped a hand over her eyes, giggling madly. "This…this… this isn't…" she could barely get the words out from laughing so hard. "This isn't the bathroom, Sherlock," she finally managed.

"I…uh… oh," he said and tried to get up. But his pants were preventing it. He tried his best to pull them up. "Molly, I may or may not need your help," he said. When she removed her hand from her eyes, his pants were up but he was still lying on the floor, a blush creeping over his cheeks and neck. She gave in and helped him up and lay in her bed as he went to the bathroom. When he returned, he laid down next to her, facing her and each of them looking into the other's eyes.

"I can't come back again after this," he said.

"Why not?"

"I can't tell you. Just know that if I do come back, it will be for good. But I don't know how long that will take. You need to move on, Molly. You're sad; I can see it. You deserve to be happy."

"So do you," she whispered and brushed a stray curl out of his eyes. She thought getting him drunk would allow him to relax a little bit. She didn't expect all of the emotion that came along with it. A lot of emotion for Sherlock Holmes.

"I miss them, Molly Hooper," he whispered and even in her drunken state, her heart clenched.

"I know."

"Being dead is never boring. But it is a bit lonely." She watched as his eyes began to grow heavy again, the effects of the alcohol fully setting in. "I have dreams about them, Molly. About John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And you."

"Me?" she asked in surprise.

"Well of course. I'd be nothing without my pathologist," he replied, fully looking her in the eyes.

"And I'd be nothing without my consulting detective," she replied and reached out to grab his hand. They fell asleep then, lying in bed together, hands clasped tightly.

When Molly awoke the next morning, it was to an empty bed, a pounding headache, and a small note on her pillow.

_My Dearest Molly,_

_ Thank you for everything._

_ -SH_


End file.
